Percy Bysshe Shelley

There is a snake in thy smile, my dear,
And bitter poison within thy tear.

There is a snake in thy smile, my dear,
And bitter poison within thy tear.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds

January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
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January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps--but, O ye hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.

There is no real wealth but the labor of man.

There is no real wealth but the labor of man.

Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast;
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Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast;
Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,
And other such ladylike luxuries.